Trending
Andy Rooney, the reporter who occupied the curmudgeon seat on "60 Minutes" is long gone. I have trouble believing that it has been eleven years since he passed, at the ripe old age of 92. His was the last face every Sunday night, usually grumbling, and always amusing. Andy's collection of witticisms is stored in my writing reference files.
Recently, I came across his comment: "I don't pick subjects as much as they pick me." He hit the nail on my sometimes-empty head.
I never thought I would write about the writing process. But I'm asked about it often, so when I came across Andy's comment, I realized that the same is true for me ... almost always.
Often, I read a headline, hear a radio interview, or TV commentary, and it gets me thinking. A kernel of an idea emerges, even though it may take a day or two to really form in my head. Recently, I've taken to writing down the idea immediately, because if I wait, well you know where it goes: to that big empty floating place in the sky. You know the one - where nothing you think of is available three minutes later.
Sometimes those media sound bites trigger a childhood memory. Sometimes they tickle my funny bone. Occasionally, they target something deeper. Once in a while, I find myself wrapping all three reactions together in one essay.
And then there's another kind of catalyst. Serendipity. Simply stumbling onto the subject.
Years ago, I was desperate - out of ideas on deadline day. I was so frustrated, I decided to soothe myself with a dish of Rocky Road. I opened the kitchen drawer for a spoon, and there, laying in one of the dividers was my mangled passport.
It was close to destroyed. Inexplicably, it had been run through both a washer and dryer cycle before being discovered it in a pants pocket. (Who is the gremlin that does these stupid things?) That a-ha moment jump-started the entire column. There was a lot to describe about the battered book, its well-traveled history, and the process of replacing it. No shortage of subject matter.
Last spring, three columns chronicled our returning robins.
I wouldn't have written about their influx if they hadn't moved in just as we were moving out-of-doors. Detailing their housekeeping challenges brought Dear Richard and me to a disagreement. Those columns were part Audubon Society and part marriage counselor.
Back when COVID clobbered me, I lay in the hospital bed writing my reaction to my surroundings - in my head.
I hadn't planned on my oxygen numbers being the subject of a column, but that's where I was and what I had. That first-person narrative eventually filled three columns that I hoped would be read as a warning.
Many of these accounts grow out of day-to-day stupidity and clumsiness. In fact, being a doofus is a pretty steady source of inspiration. Almost dismembering a toe while cutting up chicken legs with an oversized chef's knife comes to mind. That was a painful piece.
Falling in the garden, on both one's face and replaced knees as night fell was column-worthy. I lived alone then, had no cell phone, and no way to roll over onto those purchased knees. I think back to that accident, lying there, and wondering about two things: will the neighborhood bears be roaming tonight and what will my first line in the story be?
Another quick idea? Hopping into the wrong red SUV in the Walmart parking lot made for 750 words. I panicked when my key jammed in the ignition. That was a doozy, leaving me wondering if I could have explained my mistake to the owner or the police. I just got lucky, avoiding coming face-to-face with either. Then I went home and wrote about it.
Consistently losing reading glasses led to a column when the number of cheaters pairs reached 14. C'mon, it wasn't that bad. I had them stashed in the car, the bedroom, my bathrobe pocket, the laundry room, and three purses - the ones I could find.
I think some readers enjoy learning that they are not alone in Doofushood. I consider it an honor, being the inept person who can elevate others feeling of self-worth. "See, Jane, I'd never do anything as stupid as this."
Doesn't everyone occasionally need someone to feel superior to? Well, never fear. These days, I don't seem to lack for forgetfulness, foolhardiness or whackiness.
And fortunately, long-term memories, like mine, are filled with stories. Since my short-term memory is on the fritz most days, those old memories are a good resource -- while I'm waiting for the weekly story to find me.
Marcy O'Brien lives in Warren with her husband, Richard, and Finian, their snooping Maine Coon cat. Marcy can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com